


Security Files

by storiopath



Category: The Bright Sessions (Podcast)
Genre: A coma, also superpowers, and a bitter security guard, it ends in a death, this is not a happy romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2018-09-26
Packaged: 2018-12-14 03:32:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11774607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiopath/pseuds/storiopath
Summary: Deep in the AM, Tier 5 indefinitely holds atypicals said to be too dangerous for public integration. Security guard Charlie Decker struggles to come to terms with the truth and is definitely not falling for the newest arrival.





	1. September 15, 2011

I

September 15, 2011

The medical staff roll the new patient in, slumped unconscious in a wheelchair. Charlie Decker tenses at his desk, reflexively minimizing the open internet browser and nervously grabbing a stack of forms to mask his surprise. In the year since his promotion to Tier 4 and 5 security, there has been only one other intake, and he’d been off shift when they came in. Charlie's been steeling himself since that morning, when he found the memo directing him to prepare the room nearest the security desk for a new arrival, but actually confronted with the process, the limp body, chest rising and falling imperceptibly slowly, drugged… the security officer freezes. Director Wadsworth stops in front of his desk, sharp smile and sharper eyes gleaming down at him, examining Charlie like a bug on a pinboard. As the nurses wheel the newcomer into his room, she passes Charlie a slim manila folder. 

“This asset is a special acquisition; I will be involved with his program directly. Once you have added him to the database, review the security flags on his file carefully. His is a delicate case. Are we clear?” 

“Yes, Director.” Charlie held her gaze. He had met the Director only once before, during the review that led to his promotion, but it was enough to figure out that Wadsworth commanded any room she entered.

The Director pauses, thoughtfully, before continuing. “Agent Green speaks very highly of you, Officer Decker. Don’t disappoint us.” Her voice hints at a threat at odds with her relaxed smile. She lets go of the folder and turns on her heel, the nurses following her out the door.

The chill running down Charlie Decker’s spine dissipates as the door clicks shut and he opens the folder, turns to the computer, and enters a new patient record.

Patient 596-E-5  
Name: Mark Byron Bryant  
DOB: 5/12/1988

On and on, height, weight, last known address. Security Clearance 1, flagged invisible for codename Bright. A short personality profile Charlie lingers over to get a sense of what to expect. After the incident with the pissed-off hydrokinetic in his second week, he makes a point of reviewing all the Tier 5 profiles for red flags. After double and triple-checking the form, he uploads it and flags the update for the rest of the top clearance security staff. Finally, he prints a placard for the door, “596-E-5, Power Mimic.” Sliding it into place, Decker glances through the window. The man is about his age, probably a couple years younger, with dark clothes staining the white walls and sheets of the cot and a sharp face slack with a false serenity.

When the man begins waking up ten minutes later, Charlie is monitoring the video feed from his desk.

\---

Mark lays on the bed, head pounding, trying to remember where he is and how he got there. The last thing he remembers is shaking hands with the director of a nonprofit that had messaged him about a job. She had looked past him, seemed to nod at something, and then everything had faded. Slowly, he sits up, the walls too white, the light too harsh, pain flashing with any sudden movement. He cradles his head in his hands, palms digging into his eyes. 

Charlie watches the pain, the confusion, the vulnerability of this man half-curled in on himself and wonders what he could have done to get him confined to Tier 5. His hand hovers over the intercom button. “Social contact with patients should be avoided unless necessary to maintain the peace and wellbeing of the complex,” one of the first rules in the manual revolves in his head. He’d had to review the standards of conduct three times before his promotion was granted, was tested on it every 3 months, but the guy looks so small and alone…. On impulse, he presses the button.

A crackling sound emanates from a spot somewhere above Mark’s head before crystallizing into a voice. He freezes and squeezes his eyes tighter, wanting nothing but silence and for the pain roaring through his brain to die down. 

“Hello?” the voice ventures, “We should be able to get you something to drink soon. That should help with the headache, a bit.” 

Mark swallows and looks up at a wall, trying to focus through the white noise in his head, or was it the underlying static of the intercom? “Wow. A wake-up call and room service. Hope it doesn’t cost extra,” he retorts to the empty room. More crackling from the ceiling. Mark can almost hear the confusion spiralling through it.

“Um,” another pause from above, “A doctor should be down in about fifteen to check on you and bring a change of clothes, and then we can get you some water and something to eat.”

Mark grips the bed frame, steel biting into his fingers, and wills the wall to stop swirling before shooting back, practically on instinct. “I get healthcare from this gig too? I should really read the full benefits package. Do I get to negotiate salary?” 

From the security desk, Charlie sees Mark give a pained grimace halfway to a smile. “You can laugh if you want. It’s a joke. I doubt I’m getting out of… wherever this is anytime soon.” His voice floats from the speaker, flat and tired. Charlie stares at the screen, struggling to respond, until a minute later Mark speaks again.

“So, disembodied voice, do you have a name?”

“It’s Charlie. Charlie Decker.”

“Well, Charlie, I’m going to lay down for a bit, if you want to keep the haunting to a low.”

“Oh. Yeah, of course. Name’s though. What’s yours?”

“You mean you don’t know?” A note of disbelief breaks through the speaker.

“Ah. I… I do. Thought it might be nice to keep the introductions. Something… normal, through the transition.” Charlie tries to ignore the heat rising in his cheeks as the voice in the back of his head berates him for being an idiot. _What would Agent Green say? “You’re not here to make friends, Officer Decker. Your actions are highly inappropriate.”_

Mark stares at the ceiling and lets out a disbelieving chuckle. The silence stretches, static from the intercom filling the room. He closes his eyes and sighs. 

“It’s Mark.”

The white noise fades away as he lays back on the cot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got ten chapters / conversations planned out (not all between Mark and Charlie), but wanted to get the first two posted as motivation. Charlie Decker barely shows up in the podcast but I have latched onto him and will ship him with Mark until the end of days.


	2. October 4, 2011

II

October 4, 2011

About three weeks after Mark’s arrival, routine is reestablished, much the same as it was before. One more stop on meal deliveries, one more video feed to monitor. (Mark sits with his back against a wall, eyes lightly shut, breathing slowly. He stretches, he paces, he does push-ups, jumping jacks, crunches.) Every few days, Mark is taken out for medical tests; he returns exhausted, offers Charlie a half-smile and a thumbs-up as he’s escorted past the security desk. “I think I passed,” he mumbles. “Gonna get my GPA high enough for the advanced powers course by the end of the year I bet.” “Who the fuck thought treadmills were a good idea?” he muttered before passing out for two hours. 

And that’s the big difference, before Mark and after: the banter. Since that first day, Charlie stops for a few extra minutes when he’s in charge of meal rounds. At least twice a shift he stops himself from hitting the intercom to Mark’s room. He’s always been friendlier than the other guards thought wise, but he’s never wanted to be friends with a patient, not really. And now there Mark is, standing in the middle of his cell, turning in a circle and staring into the corners of the room, waving and seemingly talking at nothing. Charlie swears under his breath cause the guy’s either lost it or wants his attention, and he doesn’t want to admit how much he hopes it’s the latter. 

“Mr Bryant, you rang?” Charlie puts on his best English butler voice as he flips the switch.

“Hey, Charlie.” Mark stops flailing and sits on his cot. “I’m sorry - I wasn’t sure how to get your attention. It’s just. I’ve been thinking… it’s hard to keep track of time in here, but I think I’ve been here two and a half, three weeks, haven’t I?”

Charlie paused, wondering where this was headed. “Yeah, just under three weeks.”

“So we’re into October now?” Mark’s voice is carefully neutral, and Charlie senses this won’t be some fun small talk to while away the time as he responds.

“That’s right; today’s October 4th.” 

“Oh. Thanks. That’s all - I just wanted to get my bearings.” Mark shifts, leaning back against the wall and pulling his legs onto the bed. 

As Mark withdraws into himself, Charlie’s stomach drops. He knows he should switch off the intercom and let it go, but he can’t help himself. “Mark, what’s going on?” he asks, trying to mask his alarm.

“It’s nothing. Just… My sister’s birthday was three days ago. I missed it. I don’t even know if she’s realized I’m missing yet. She must have. Right?”

“Mark,” Charlie starts, but cuts himself off. Guilt coils in his stomach, nauseating and bilious. 

“She was the last person in my family I still talked with. Even when things were rough, we still sent holiday cards. I was going to take her out for cupcakes, one of those boutique places, you know? Frosting as tall as the base? It’s ridiculous, but watching Joanie try to hide her smile behind the mound of it always feels like we’re kids again.” 

Charlie tries to think of a response, his thoughts flailing and contorting to find some word of comfort while acutely aware that this conversation is happening via intercom and security camera. And after all the mental gymnastics are done, the words he lands on are a quiet “I’m sorry,” almost lost in the quiet static of the intercom.

Mark just looks sad, eyes staring a thousand miles away. His next words are slow and deliberate. “Do you think you could…” He pauses as he comes back to earth, eyes refocusing to see the room around him once more, shaking his head. “No, never mind. I apologize for taking your time, Officer Decker. Thank you for listening.” 

“Of course, Mark. If you want to talk, well, you know how to get my attention.” Charlie wonders about that dangling question, thinks about pursuing it but shies away. On the screen, Mark nods slowly but says nothing. 

A minute later, with a small click, the line between them shuts off.


	3. October 31, 2011

III

October 31, 2011

The rest of October is an exploration of tedium. When he’s not being escorted to and from a now almost daily battery of tests, Mark sits on his cot or walks the perimeter of his cell. Once a week he is taken out for a psychological evaluation. (Once a week he sits in their offices and tries not to snark for one to three hours. Did they actually think he was going to open up to these people? Sometimes he makes shit up, just to see what he can get them to believe, and what they already know.) He sleeps, more than he probably should, and tries not to smile at the weekday security guard as he’s marched past the desk. Mark Bryant stands in front of an unmarked white wall, in a plain white outfit, next to a bed draped in simple white sheets, and holds in a yell, fists clenched and tense to prevent punching the wall.

For the first few weeks, Mark had allowed himself a weakness, the idea that even here, he could still have friends, or something resembling one. Officer Decker had seemed sincerely kind, a lifeboat in a maelstrom of sweetly smiling doctors and menacing questions. But he was trapped here, and Charlie’s whole job was to make sure he stayed that way. In the back of his mind, skirting outside his direct consideration, was the thought that _Maybe he’s a plant. If they really want information about me, why not hire a good cop to coax it out? Joanie would know what to do - she lives for this brain stuff._ He isolated himself, stopped trying to make jokes, refused to acknowledge small talk until the attempts stopped entirely. 

There’s a knock at the door. Mark looks up and nods at Charlie as he comes in and sets a tray of food on the small table that’s one of the room’s few furnishings. Charlie nods back and turns to leave, but lingers in the doorway. He half-turns to look back at Mark. 

“I think they want to start testing your power at the end of the week. Anthony is scheduled for a session that starts ten minutes after yours. It’s enough time to let them take you down separately.” He leans against the doorframe and stares at the ground. “Anthony’s a telepath. Mark, they can be skittish around non-visible powers, and no one’s seen a power like yours before. If you think you’ve caught information they wouldn’t want you to have, don’t let it show. Anthony’s a good guy. He’ll try to help if he can, and he’s been here years longer than I even knew this place existed, but they’ll be monitoring you both closely for any activity they don’t want.”

Mark stares at him hard, and as he turns to leave the room, asks, “Charlie, why are you here?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why are you here? I’m here because I came in for a job interview, and then got drugged and carried down here. Why are you here?”

“You don’t give them enough credit. Carrying a person, even a skinny boy like you, would be too much menial labor. They rolled you down in a wheelchair like civilized people.” Charlie was grinning tentatively. Mark wanted to both laugh and slap the grin off his face.

“Charlie,” he warned.

“Student loans. I couldn’t find a job after I graduated college, but I’d done some work as a security guard to make ends meet. When the loans came up, I was able to turn that into a job here at the AM. The pay was better than seemed possible, and it came with insurance, so I signed the NDA without thinking too hard about it. And now there’s not a good way to list ‘experience calming down telekinetic fourteen-year-olds having a panic attack’ on a resume, so I’m still here.” 

“Wait - there are kids down here? Fucking -” Mark was nearing a shout, eyes wide in shock.

“No! We’re in Tier 5. Tiers 1-3 are short-term training programs to teach people, mostly kids, how to control their powers. You’re the youngest down here, and you’re 23! I didn’t even know this place existed until they offered me a promotion. Didn’t know what was going on here until I accepted. This isn’t the easiest place in the world to leave. They’ll do anything to keep their secrets, and at least as long as I’m here I can make sure Anthony and Simone and Camille, and everyone else, are alright. That you’re alright.”

“So what, you’ve just got this secret cabal of prisoner friends? Do you sneak out to hold hands and sing kumbaya once a month or something?”

“No," he winced. "Most of the people down here don’t want anything to do with me. A handful actively hate me. I can’t blame them, considering. But Camille, she came in six months before you, she just likes having someone who will stop and chat. Simone’s a precognate, she can tell the future, so she likes making cryptic statements at the other guards but wants someone around to laugh at the load of bull she comes up with.”

Mark stares, one eyebrow raised. “You’re something else, Charlie Decker.” 

“I’ve been standing here way too long, is what I am.” A light blush rises in Charlie’s cheeks. He glances away. “I slipped some salt water taffy onto your tray. My family sends me a bunch every holiday. I wasn’t sure what you liked, but it’s Halloween today, so I wanted to do something. Please don’t mention it to any of the other guards; I’d be marched straight to a disciplinary meeting. I’ve got some chocolate melting in my pocket though so I need to get back to my deliveries.” He waves a hand at the cart of dinner trays waiting in the hallway.

“So I’m not the only one getting your special attention today? Should I be jealous?” Mark teases, a mischievous light shining in his eyes for the first time in months.

Charlie’s face burns a bright red and Mark has to choke back a laugh. He waves the tonguetied security guard out the door. “Go on, back to work. I’m sure I’ll get over it.” As Charlie continues down the hall, he thinks about the light in Mark’s eyes, warm and bright, and begins plotting ways to keep it from going out. 

Mark stands up and moves to the tray of food. As he savors the flavor of salt water taffy on his tongue, he thinks on the flush of cheeks and the guilt riding in every line of the guard’s posture. A flicker of hope warms him from the inside out. _Maybe there’s something good hiding in this place after all._


	4. March 24, 2012

IV

March 24, 2012

If you asked Charlie Decker why he volunteered for the Saturday shift, he’d give a laugh and brush it off. “Spent too much at the bar the last couple weeks. Gotta make it up somehow,” he’d say. He wouldn’t even believe he was lying. And if the decision had also coincided with a half hour discussion with Mark about comic book heroes, then what of it? Daniels deserved a vacation, somebody needed to be here, and a few extra dollars was always helpful. And in the months after Mark’s first sessions with Anthony, Mark had slowly warmed to him again. It was just small talk, two guys passing the time. The leap in his guts was meaningless. Bypassing the usual process of favor trading that came with filling vacation days was just a sign of his own economic desperation. 

The wash of disappointment and spike of concern that hit him as he walked in that afternoon to find Mark missing from his room was surely just a manifestation of his confusion. 

He pulls up the schedule. When Charlie left the night before, as with most weekends, there had been nothing planned. Now there was a single item for the day, added Friday at 8:32pm: Psych Eval. / 596-E-5 / Wadsworth. It had a start time of noon, with no end time listed. Charlie glances at the clock. 1:10pm. He settles in to review the security logs. An hour passes, then two.

At 3:45, Johnson escorts Mark in, face white and eyes glazed. He looks at Charlie, past Charlie, and walks by without a word or a nod. The other guard closes the door at Mark’s back and calls out to Charlie as he makes his way across to the door.

“I don’t know what the Director did to him, but it did a number alright. I bet they won’t have any trouble with that one for the next month or two at least.”

Charlie offers a tense smile. “Sure seems so, Johnson. Kid looked like he saw a ghost.” 

Johnson lets out a guffaw. “You never know with what they get up to in here, Decker. Don’t get too bored sitting around today.” As the door to Tier 5 closes, Charlie is already examining the video monitor. Mark sits on his bed, bent over with arms on his knees, hands clasped in front. Charlie glances at the intercom switch before abruptly pushing himself out of his chair and striding to the cell door.

Mark hears the beep of the door unlocking but doesn’t register it. His focus is on his hands, gripped tightly together to control their shaking. Control. He needs to get control of himself. Was that his name? _Goddamnit._ If he can’t even keep control of his own damn body then what good- that was definitely his name. Who… A hand touches his shoulder and he jerks away, at last looking up into the concerned eyes of Charlie Decker.

“Charlie? What are you doing here? It’s Saturday, isn’t it?” Confusion creases his face, interrupts the maelstrom of spiralling thoughts.

“Mark, what’s wrong? I took an extra shift. What happened?” The guard reaches out to grip his shoulder once more, but Mark flinches away. Charlie freezes and drops his arm before crouching in front of Mark so their faces are level. 

“Mark,” he says softly, their eyes locked together. “Talk to me.”

“She threatened her. That woman. Threatened. Joanie.” At his last two words, Mark’s right fist punches down against the mattress next to him. His whole body is shaking, in fear or rage. Maybe both.

“What did she do, Mark? What did she say?” 

“She — Wadsworth — knew everything about her. Where she went to school, what she looked like. She knew Joanie’s favorite goddamn color, Charlie. And she said. I’ve told you I haven’t been taking their shrink sessions seriously, and I don’t always do exactly what they want when they’re trying to test my power. She said it would be so much easier to get to Joan now that they had me. That I should remember that I was valuable to them and Joanie wasn’t. That they could take her and nobody would know. They could hurt her and it would be all my fault. As long as I don’t cooperate.” Tears were rolling slowly down his cheeks now.

Charlie shifts and sits next to Mark on the bed. Gently, as though reaching out to greet a new dog without spooking it, he covers Mark’s still-clenched fist with his hand, ready to move at the smallest sign of discomfort. Recognition sparks in Mark’s subconscious, a murmur of safety that releases the tension in his arm. 

“It’s a bluff. It has to be. They wouldn’t want to risk compromising you. From what I know of the Director, she needs control. But if they pushed you too far they’d risk breaking you or losing their leverage.”

“Really, Charlie? Cause she looked and sounded really fucking serious about it. She seemed happy, smug, like I was her little mouse in the corner she was going to snack on. If you can say, without any doubt, that this is a bluff, then look me in the eye and say it again.”

Charlie glances at Mark’s face and looks away, can sense Mark’s curt nod next to him. He blinks slowly and lets out a breath, feeling a decision slot into place. 

“Her name’s Joan? Joan Bryant? Or is she married?” Mark stills, his eyes attempting to bore through Charlie’s skull. 

“Yeah. Bryant. She was never going to settle, not as long as there was research to do.” 

Charlie faces him, considering. “Phone and email’s out. If they know as much as they say, all her tech will be bugged so they can track her. Do you know her address?” 

Mark shook his head. “She moved apartments a couple weeks before I was locked in here. Charlie, what are you…. I don’t….”

“If I can find her, I’ll try to get her a message to be careful. Keep an eye on things out there.” As the words cross his lips, a kernel of disbelief and dread settles in his stomach. This plan moves several steps past deniability if it’s found out. “I’m sorry, Mark. I need to get back to my desk. They’re going to be bringing the dinner trays down soon.”

As he stands up, Mark pulls the guard into an embrace. Charlie hesitantly raises his arms to return the hug, the kernel of dread lodged in his chest blossoming into a warm glow unrelated to the hot tears now staining his shirt collar. 

\---

He would search for three weeks, browse phone books and dig through government records. He googled her name and searched every social media site. No public record of Joan Bryant seemed to exist. It was another two weeks before he told Mark, his words like ice as he described his failure. Mark insisted it was fine, was sure it was meaningless; Joan valued her privacy, after all. The color draining from Mark’s face behind the denials nonetheless felt somehow like a betrayal.


	5. March 24, 2012 (later)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter wasn't part of the original outline, but then I fell in love with some OCs. So. Here we are. Simone and Anthony are both slated to show up later, along with a short appearance by Camille. Keith might come back if I can work it in, but he wasn't in my initial plans (part of the reason this chapter exists whoops).

IV Part 2

March 24, 2012 (later)

Charlie pushes the cart of dinner trays down the hallways of Tier 5, wheels squeaking and echoing off the barren halls, past the empty cells to the marked doors. Mark had been asleep when he returned to the room, tossing fitfully on the cot, so he left the tray on the table for him to find. Trish lazily shoots finger guns in his direction, sparks flowering from her fingertips as he sets her tray down. The hydrokinetic across the hall ( _Jonas_ , he thinks with distaste) glares at him, seething, as he slips the tray through the slimmest crack possible. Charlie stops outside of Anthony’s (Patient 20-A-3) room and gives a staccato courtesy knock on the door before walking in. 

“How are you today, you old gossip?” he asks brightly as he hands Anthony the tray. 

“Reveling in office intrigue,” the telepath replies drily. “Did you realize Daniels wanted the weekend off to take one of the new lower level recruits on a romantic getaway? Green will have his head on a platter if he finds out. The dolt doesn’t have a romantic thought in his head anyway.” 

“Which one - Green or Daniels?” Charlie keeps his voice light as he backs toward the door, hoping the banter will keep the older telepath from skimming his thoughts.

“Both. Green’s greatest shot at love is to find someone who loves spreadsheets even more than he does.” He waits until Charlie puts a hand on the door before casually adding, “Keith could probably help your friend, if you can get him close enough. Dreams don’t have to be as exhausting as our daily existence here, and the effect of a dreamwalker can linger if he knows what he’s doing. Thirty minutes and Mark could get a few days of decent sleep, I’d wager.” Anthony looks at the guard pointedly over his glasses. “Yes, you are, in fact, more transparent than an open book.”

Charlie sighs. “You know Keith is kept in a separate wing to make sure he’s out of range of everyone. And that patient interaction outside of monitored hours and environments is prohibited.”

“I also know their rooms are both closest to the security desk and your interpretation of the rules is more flexible than it used to be. No, you can try to deny it with loopholes and excuses, but you’re more self-aware than that. I can see the shadows under his eyes in your head. If Keith can reach anyone, it’ll be Mark down there. And to be frank, you don’t know how stubborn that man can be if you can turn his mind to something. Ask Simone if you want confirmation.”

“Maybe.” Charlie says doubtfully, holding the door half open. “And what’s in it for you for me to risk something like that? A chance to peek into his head? The opportunity for him to sneak into your dreams without me knowing?”

As Anthony’s face flushes red, Charlie knew he had hit something. The telepath opens his mouth to retort before snapping it shut with a grimace.

“You think I’m trying to manipulate you, and clumsily. It’s been years since I’ve seen him, Charlie. Seeing Simone last month, hearing her thoughts again was like coming home, but without Keith it was like walking in and the sofa’s gone. So yes, Officer Decker, I want the chance to hear Keith again, to feel his dreams wrap around us. Stop; don’t pity me. We are used to not getting what we want down here. Do you know what Mark thought, once he got our powers under control? They were guilty! Apologies for intruding on our reunion, foolish but heartfelt. He deserves what peace he can get before they break him. You think they won’t? They threatened his sister, and that’s only the simplest manipulation they’ll use. They will take him to the edge of sanity and convince him they’re the only ones who can keep him from going over. He will break, and you will be helpless to stop it.” He was staring Charlie full in the face, the guard’s mouth suddenly dry as he jumps topics. 

“I don’t think I ever thanked you for how kind you were to Mark in those first sessions. He seemed calmer after them.”

“Letting him know you weren’t a blackhearted spy helped a lot. He actually wanted to like you too.”

“Ah. Well. I appreciate it." Something between anxiety and delight started doing flips in his stomach. "I need to get going. I’ll think about what you said.” He shuts the door and rolls the cart a few doors down. Patient 21-A-6, Precognate. He knocks, opens the door, and attempts a lighthearted smile at the woman on the other side. 

“Have you pegged down any good vacation days for me yet, Simone?”

“Not yet, Charlie, though I’m thinking it will storm in about three weeks,” she says, winking.

“The last time you predicted a storm, we had light breezes and butterflies.”

“And yet I’m still probably better than the weatherman.” Simone laughs and takes her tray from the guard, places it carefully on the bed next to her and looks him matter-of-factly in the eye. “Anthony means well, suggesting you get Keith involved, but it won’t work, and it’s best you stop considering it. He doesn’t have the strength to weave a dream from that far, and any attempt you make to get them closer together is going to get you both caught and punished. It’s not worth it, even if Keith is bored enough to agree to it. You should ask Anthony about the two weeks I took off to visit family, he was working full-time, and Keith was between gigs. I thought he was about to break apart from boredom by the time I got back. Anthony says he’s never heard thoughts more desperate for distraction. To hear him tell it, Keith was about to turn feral any minute.” 

She lets out a laugh, stands, and looks Charlie up and down. Her smile fades. “It’s only going to get worse from here, Charlie. I don’t know exactly what’s going to happen - there are too many paths, too many people I know nothing about - but doing something foolish will only make it worse.”

The hair on the back of his neck prickles, but Charlie snorts out a laugh. “Simone, I know your games. How many times have you given these warnings just to make someone scared of their shoelaces?”

A pitying look enters her eyes and Charlie is suddenly aware of the psychic’s height. Only a few inches taller than himself, but enough to give the impression of staring down at him.

“I’ve grown too fond of you to give empty words, Officer Decker. Do not act rashly unless you wish to make things worse, faster. But tell Keith that we miss him, please.” 

As Charlie makes his way back down the hall, he tries to shake the chill from his spine. Data on precognates was wildly inconclusive he knew, even if he wasn’t allowed access to the research. He didn’t think Simone would lie to him, but maybe she was misunderstanding whatever her ability was picking up on? It couldn’t get as bad as she and Anthony seemed to think, could it? He parks the cart next to his desk, picks up the final tray, and unlocks the door to a side hallway. Halfway along the corridor he stops before a lonely door (Patient 22-A-5) and takes a deep breath.

“Keith. How are you?” Charlie asks, slipping through the door. The man on the bed sits up, dark shadows under glazed eyes, and grabs the tray of food. Charlie leans against the wall by the door and watches the dreamwalker scoop potatoes into his mouth.

“You want something,” Keith mutters. “What is it?”

“Nothing.” He resists the urge to fidget. “Anthony and Simone send their regards. They both miss you.” 

At their names, Keith puts down the spoon and sighs. “His dreams are sad lately. Hers are everywhere. Futures bleed into them.” 

Charlie’s eyes widen in shock. “How do you…? You’re not supposed to be able to access anyone’s dreams from here. It’s outside your range.”

Keith, eyes clearer, smiles slyly up at him from the bed. “You don’t live with people for eight years without adjusting to them. I may not be able to enter their dreams, but you could take me across the grounds of this hellpit and I could still sense those two. I spend half my time in this damn room walking through my own mind. At least when I feel theirs it’s something new. Now. What do you want? How can I help the overseers of the AM?”

Tension rises between them in the silence, Charlie frozen against the wall, eyes locked with the dreamwalker steadily making his way through the tray of food. _If Anthony is right, dreamwalking could be the answer to help Mark cope with what’s going on. But if Simone is right, this could make everything fall apart. How much can you trust a precognate anyway? What to do…_

“Spit it out, Decker! You, at least, don’t have all day.” Keith spits the words like acid, eyes now crystal clear and sharp as a razor.

He latches onto caution. “There’s nothing. If you have any messages you’d like me to take to the other patients—”

“Prisoners, Decker. Prisoners in cells. You are not that dense, or Simone and Anthony would not trust you with anything more than disdain. This is no hospital or weekend retreat. We are zoo animals—”

“Thank you,” Charlie cut in, “for your clarification. If there are any words I can pass along, I will gladly do so.” He pushes away from the wall and grabs the door. Before it closes completely, Keith’s request rushes through.

“Tell them I love them. Please.”

The door clicks shut. Charlie returns to the security room and rolls the tray cart out into the main hallway for collection. He places his palms on the cool wood of his desk and imagines punching it with all his might, imagines disabling security in the room and opening the doors. He pictures the layers of checkpoints and safeguards and hears Simone’s warning again, pictures the rest of the security force coming down on them. After a few minutes he clears his head and gets out the evening’s paperwork. When he returns home late that night he pours a glass of whiskey and falls into the dark of dreamless sleep.


	6. April 2012-June 2013

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another chapter that I didn't plan, and also the first time I've cut about half of what I had written from it cause it didn't work overall. I wrote a draft of Mark's first session with Camille, but it was getting long and this is ultimately about Charlie and Mark and, let's be real, is an In Defense of My Ship fic. Might clean up and post that scene at the end though. And new year, new work ethic, so maybe I'll get better at writing quickly. Thank you so much to everybody who likes and comments! I love reading what you have to say!

V

March 2012 - June 2013

Some days, some months, are harder than others. After almost two years at the AM, Mark has a feel for the patterns. Exposure to a new atypical brings a week of extensive one-on-one testing, then repeat tests with previously studied abilities to confirm baselines, and finally combining them. Days of testing variations in control and range and side effects depending on the type and number of abilities, combining them like Lego pieces. Controlling hydro- and pyrokinesis simultaneously is a pain in the ass, without fail, and having Anthony in the room either stabilizes things or blows everything up. Physical and psych evaluations ramp up as the testing cycle progresses, and right when he is most exhausted, not in every cycle and always without warning, Wadsworth takes him to her office for a special session. Sometimes it’s "just a chat," praises for progress, the honey in her voice betrayed by the hunger in her eyes; usually it is more pointed, displeasure at “willful behavior” and a reminder of who has power and how little Mark understands what he can do. Mark leaves every encounter shaking, in anger or fear or exhaustion. He wishes Joan were with him, closes his eyes and hears her promise that he is more than his ability, then guilt pours through him that he could ever wish she was in a place like this. 

Back in his cell after one session, in a flash of rage, he throws the end table by the door across the room. He hits the floor before he’s even halfway to where it landed, Daniels’ knee pressing into his back. Handcuffed to the bed, he wants Joan to appear and promise him everything will be alright. He wants to scream and cuss and mock his captors to their smug faces. He wants Camille near enough to send their minds back in time and escape consciousness. He wishes Charlie Decker would walk through the door and take his hand. He imagines Charlie’s voice crackling over the intercom, reading to him. He sees Charlie’s smile when he doesn’t realize Mark is looking, shy and sad and uncertain, kind and soft. More than anything, Mark wants to not be alone.

\--------------------------

Over two years, Charlie tracks the darkening shadows under Mark’s eyes. He watches Mark lash out in his sleep, and he lingers outside Keith’s door, holding still and silent and breathless for too long not to be suspicious before turning away. On good days, Mark returns from the tests with a cocky wink or a sly grin. On slow days, with no escorts coming through security, they switch from talking to storytelling. It took a month to read Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, peppered with commentary and arguments. (“I wouldn’t attack a troll for you, Mark.” “I’m glad to hear it - I’d hate to watch you punch yourself out like that.”) And when Mark is tired, angry, depressed, or overwhelmed, he listens, and he learns.

Trish used to be homeless, caught lighting fires to keep others warm in winter. Jonas was an environmental activist, brought in after flooding a factory that was dumping pollutants into a river. Tim had spent weeks in a hospital, trapped by an onslaught of emotions he couldn’t control. Joanne was a musician, able to coax sounds from instruments no one could replicate.

Over two years, Charlie learns to tell when days are bad. Trish smokes at the fingertips when stressed, not enough to be visible, but the smell is distinctive once you notice. Anthony snaps at anybody nearby, dredging up rumors and insecurities. When Camille walks past, head held high like a queen and pace deliberately slow, Charlie passes her chocolate-covered marshmallows the next chance he gets. The first time he slips Keith dried apricots — Simone’s suggestion; the man is a wall — Keith narrows his eyes, but savors them. Charlie’s locker is a convenience store of bags and jumbled boxes of snack food, the only pick-me-up he can smuggle into a room without leaving evidence behind.

With Mark, he can always tell. The forced smile and tense shoulders. He tries to hide it. When Mark is hurting, he doesn’t want to be seen. 

It takes Charlie every ounce of self-control to not run into Mark’s room. He made that mistake once, waited for months for someone to review the security tapes and the boot to fall. He holds himself at his desk with a mind screaming at him to get up, to walk into that room, to wrap Mark in his arms and protect him from the world. Against every shouting instinct, Charlie still hears Simone. “Doing something foolish will only make it worse.” 

Still, when he delivers the dinner trays, he positions himself precisely to block the camera’s view. He squeezes Mark’s shoulder or lets their hands slide together. Before the moment breaks, Charlie looks into those soft, tired brown eyes and tells him, “You’re stronger than they are, Mark.”

After his daily report is finished, before his replacement arrives, Charlie flips the intercom.

“How are you?”

“Can you just… talk? For a while?” 

And he does. About movies, celebrities, random headlines, that adorable squid video. For as long as he can without risking the night shift catching him. 

“I’ve got to go, Mark. Good night.”

“Good night, Charlie. Thank you.”


	7. July 15, 2013

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An incredibly self-indulgent chapter about how much I like Pacific Rim.

VI

July 15, 2013

“Rise and shine, sleepy eyes!” The greeting comes with a wash of soft static breaking up two days of silence.

Mark sits against the wall of his room, eyes closed even as a grin starts to crack his face. “Monday already, Decker? I was just getting over the headache you left me with last week. Have you learned how to shut up yet?”

“You know how I feel about backtalk, Bryant. Be careful or I’ll keep the new material to myself.” Charlie Decker holds a notebook over his desk, eyes the intervening space critically, and raises it a bit higher before letting it drop. The muffled thump crackles across the intercom, coaxing a raised eyebrow and half-opened eyes from the man on the video screen before he flops back onto the bed with arms crossed behind his head.

“If you’re going to sing at me again, please, please don’t ruin any more Disney. My childhood can’t take much more.”

“That’s just cruel, Mark. What if I spent the whole weekend practicing?” Charlie leans back in his chair, locking his fingers behind his neck in practiced nonchalance. 

“Please, Mr. Grumpy Gills. Mercy, I beg you.” 

“Jerk.” 

“If you’re throwing paper around, must be a slow day. Are they calling off this round early?” Mark asks brightly.

“‘Fraid not,” Charlie says, sitting back up. “Delayed start today. They’re going to start taking you up at one. You, Anthony, Trish, Joanne, and Terry. I’ve got the whole morning to make you regret that headache comment.” 

“I accept my fate,” Mark declares. “Do your worst, Decker. What have you got?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Charlie chuckles evilly. He flips open the notebook and clears his throat with a theatrical _harumph_. 

“Static blue electricity arcs between the walls of a seafloor chasm. The brooding, rugged voice of a rugged man says something about aliens in a voiceover.”

“Hold up! Are we watching a movie?” Mark props himself on one arm, facing the camera in the corner of the room. 

“Yes, we are watching a movie. And I went to see it three times this weekend to take notes, so pay close attention.”

“Oh my god, Charlie. You really did practice this all weekend, didn’t you? You haven’t even told me the name of the movie you wrote this novelization for!”

“It’s called _Pacific Rim_ , and if you keep this up, I will reduce the whole movie to a one sentence synopsis.” 

“Now who’s the jerk? You were at the sexy man talking about underwater aliens.”

Charlie scowls at the camera as Mark beams brightly up at it. “Fine. But I’m watching you.”

“Yes, yes you are. And if you would install some video chat in here, I could watch you too.” Mark’s grin grows infectiously wider as Charlie’s groan pops through the intercom. 

“Anyway,” Charlie smiles down at his notebook, “Fire from another world splits the screen, electricity arcing around and through it. An orange glow radiates through the water. This is the Breach. Our deep-voiced narrator informs us that the first Kaiju attacked San Francisco when he was fifteen, and the scene shifts to a green-skinned monstrosity, claws larger than cars dripping seawater, as it snaps the Golden Gate Bridge in two. Its skin is marbled with rusty orange veins and it lets out a gasping shriek -” Charlie lets out a noise like a dehydrated mummy that has Mark shoving his face into the sheets to hold in his laughter - “that reveals the fire roaring deep in its throat - the same, unnatural glow reflected in its malicious eyes.” Charlie lowers his voice and ends in a gleeful hiss as he watches Mark fight back another bout of laughter.

“You should really switch to acting,” Mark gasps out. “And excellent note taking. Bravo on catching the visual cues between the breach thing and the giant monster. Would steal these notes for the final exam.” 

Charlie cocks his head. “What?”

“All the orange glowing. The monster is breach-powered, or they’re powered by the same thing, right? I thought that’s why you pointed it out?”

“Mark,” Charlie started, before noticing the grin breaking across Mark’s face once more, “No, don’t start, Mark. I was just trying to be dramatic. No don’t start laughing again, you dummy. We can’t all be art snobs.” 

The two ricochet between tangents, giant monsters, and the robots that fight them. They take a 20-minute detour through Godzilla and Autobots. Mark launches into a ten-minute tirade about the relative drift compatibility of Hogwarts students, sending Charlie into a downward spiral of laughter before he launches a series of rebuttals. At the two-hour mark, Charlie flips off the microphone to sign off on the lunch delivery. At one o’clock, Johnson escorts Mark to a lab somewhere deeper in the facility. “It’s a poor guard that lets someone walk out right in front of them,” Mark quips as Charlie signs the release into the security logs. At 1:15, they come for Anthony and Terry. At 1:30, they take Joanne and Trish.

At 3:30, the soft beep of the door unlocking interrupts the clicking of Charlie’s keyboard. The slamming of the door makes Charlie tense. The wheelchair crossing the threshold stops his heart. He pushes to his feet as it’s wheeled in, and his breath catches until he sees Terry’s bald head and dazed eyes.

_Thank God_ , he thinks at the first wave of relief, before the guilt and fear stabs through to an internal chorus of _Shitfuckwhatthefuck_. He turns to Johnson, scowling by the door, and shoots the question.

“What happened?” 

“Minor concussion. He was the first one cleared. Says he can’t walk straight yet but I bet he’s faking. The telepath should be back next. At least he can walk himself down. The other two will be held in medical tonight and re-evaluated tomorrow.”

Charlie’s blood chills. “Other two? We signed five patients out today, Johnson. What about -” He stumbles over his words as the handbook flashes into his mind: _referring to patients by name is a sign of unprofessional familiarity and should be avoided_. “What about 596-E-5?”

“Him,” Johnson spits. “The Director’s meeting with him. She’ll send him down when she’s finished.”

The two nurses roll the wheelchair down the hall, passing the guards with a nod. Johnson glares at their receding backs. “Fucking mad scientists, leaving us to look after their fucking lab rats after they break them.” He glances back over to Charlie. “I’m not jealous of your job right now, Decker. If anything happens to them while you’re on shift, it’s your head, got it? Any change of status, notify medical immediately. Get a report ready for the next shift explaining. Priority flag.”

Charlie’s mouth hangs open, incredulity splashed across every line of his face. “What the FUCK even happened, Johnson?” He represses the shout, just barely, fear and anger sparking in his gut.

“Lab accident of some kind. That’s all I know, and all you need to know. Get that report up ASAP, and be ready to sign the other two back in.” Johnson slams the door, leaving a trail of muttered expletives and panic fluttering in Charlie’s stomach.

He walks back to the desk. He sits down slowly and begins to type. _Due to a lab incident, Patients 286-B-7 and 523-B-5 are being held for overnight medical evaluation. Expect updates in the morning. Patients 82-A-5 and 20-A-4 should be closely monitored for unusual activity or a decline in status and reported promptly if necessary._

He waits. At 3:52, the door opens. Anthony limps in, escorted by Johnson and Simmons. He says nothing as they march him down the hall. The two guards nod as they walk back out. As the door closes, Charlies posts the security notice. He flips a switch.

“Anthony,” he starts. On a screen he watches a head snap up.

“No. Not today, Charlie.” The voice across the intercom is flat, exhausted.

“What happ-” He tries again, but the intercom cuts him off.

“Don’t.”

“Is there anything I can do?” 

Anthony turns his head to face the camera. They sit, as close to staring at each other as they can get. Charlie’s heart pounds in his chest. The voice that comes through this time drips with contempt and anger.

“I had my mind ripped out today, Charlie. And someone else’s thoughts poured in. There is nothing you can do except shut up.” 

Charlie flips the switch back. He turns on the intercom to 82-A-5’s room. “Terrence, this is Charlie. What happened back there? Are you alright?”

“Quiet,” the larger man rumbles. He starts to raise a hand to his head but it flops down uselessly.

“But… what happened?” Charlie sputters. The rise and fall of Terry’s sigh is barely visible on the screen.

“I hurt.” The deep bass voice is barely above a whisper. “My head hurts. My body. Go away.” He turns his head away from the camera, dismissing the possibility of any more questions.

Charlie shuts off the intercom once more and stares at the door to the main corridor, each tick of the clock drawing his nerves tighter. He checks the time. His left leg bounces up and down; he grips it until it stops. He checks the time again. Fingers pummel a rhythm into the desk; he clamps onto the edge, knuckles whitening. The clock seems to count down the same seconds, time repeating. When the door finally opens again, at 4:15 and 32 seconds, he surges to his feet. Johnson raises an eyebrow.

“How’s it look, Decker? Anything to report?”

Mark walks past, escorted by Simmons on the far side. His eyes are red, his hair sticking up where his hands have run through it. Charlie forces himself to look away.

“All fine, sir.” 

“Good. Make sure it stays that way.” Johnson turns on his heel and holds the door open for Simmons, returning from the cells. 

The two leave; the door clicks shut. Mark, curled up on his bed, shakes. A sob spasms through his body. At the security desk, Charlie barely hesitates before flicking through settings and commands. With a final tap of the keyboard, the video feed showing Mark flickers and goes dark. A message flashes on the computer screen: _Reboot in progress. Shutting down._ Refusing to look at the camera glaring from the corner of the room, Charlie slips into the hallway lined with cells and, hands trembling, unlocks Mark’s door.

Mark is, somehow, almost silent, tears rolling down his face, huddled into a tight, shuddering ball. Every few seconds he gasps for air before a new wave washes down his face, his thin shirt spattered and streaked with damp stains. Charlie settles next to him and tentatively rests a hand on Mark’s back.

“Are you ok?”

“I didn’t know,” Mark says. “I didn’t know what would happen. I didn’t.” He grasps at Charlie, arms wrapping desperately around his waist and face burrowing into his chest. “I didn’t know,” he mumbles, words muffled by tears and fabric.

“Shhh it’s ok, it’s alright.” Charlie holds Mark against him, trying to steady the shaking. Sweat and tears soak through his uniform, warm against the skin. “What didn’t you know?” At the question, Mark shudders; Charlie pulls him closer. “It’s alright. Deep breaths, slow. With me.” Mark inhales with the rise of his chest, exhales with its fall, juddering gasps barely holding together. After the fourth, Mark pulls back and laughs nervously.

“I got your uniform all wet. Sorry.” 

“It’s ok. It’ll dry.”

Mark twists around to lean against a wall; Charlie follows his lead, keeping a hand on Mark’s shoulder. Side by side, they stare across the room.

“Shouldn’t you be freaking out about Big Brother?” Marks asks.

“Oh, it’s uh… a small trick.” Charlie fidgets with his pants leg. “The camera in here is on a reboot loop. It’ll send out a notification if too many go down at once or if this one stays down too long, but it buys time. It’s meant for emergencies, if something looks wrong.” 

Mark nods and lets out a hiccup before wiping his nose. He stares at the wall, the ceiling. Vast, white, empty space, nothing to break it up or mark a difference except the edge where they meet, barely discernible. A new wave of tears pricks the corners of his eyes. A squeeze on his shoulder brings him back from the emptiness and he leans into the warm, solid body next to him. The only warm thing in this sparse, empty place.

“They said I needed to push my power,” he whispers. “They’ve been building up to… this. For weeks. Do you know what it’s like with them? It’s all flashing lights and graphs that don’t make any sense. Wadsworth kept telling me if I didn’t, it would drive me insane. Kept pointing out tics and nervous habits, and I couldn’t remember if I’d always done them or if they were new. She said my mind was breaking. I needed to exercise it so it could take the strain.” 

Mark pauses as a tremble enters his voice. Charlie wraps an arm around him and pulls him closer. The shaking stills. 

“They wanted me to pull the powers from the others. It’s usually passive. Atypicals get close and my power copies. I can feel it happening, like a tickle in the back of my head, but I don’t need to do anything. There’s feedback sometimes, if it’s new. The atypical I’m _leaching_ from loses some control. Nothing bad.”

“It was bad this time?” Charlie asks softly.

“Wadsworth was there. She’s not usually. She wanted me to focus on using _my_ power, not theirs. Active, not passive. I didn’t want to do it. I didn’t. She just smiled. I can hear her. God. I can still hear her. ‘Either do this now or we’ll have all the time in the world when you’re too lost in your own head to say no.’

So I did it. They brought the others in and I tore their powers out. Anthony started screaming. He - I think he knew what was happening first. I couldn’t… couldn’t find him anymore. Once I pulled. Telepath’s minds are always confusing, but Anthony always has a stable... himness holding it all together. I couldn’t find it anymore. I tried to tell him I was sorry. I didn’t know. I don’t even know if I was speaking out loud or just thinking it.”

“He’s in his room right now, recovering.” 

Mark nods and leans his head against Charlie’s shoulder.

“Terry was knocked unconscious. I don’t know if it was me or him. When I pulled the telekinesis out of him, the few loose things in the room went flying and he slammed into the floor. Not just a fall—slammed. A couple times. Trish. She lost control. Fire sparking up and down her arms. Her immunity switched off.” Mark’s voice hitched. “The flames on her arm caught her sleeve and hand. The smell—

I don’t know what happened to Joanne. Her mouth was open like she was screaming, but nothing was coming out. I could sense the soundwaves, but not hear them. I think they were inside her. Like her ability set them echoing through her body. She started bleeding. It was only a couple minutes.” 

Tears roll down Mark’s cheek onto Charlie’s shoulder. They sit quietly. Charlie shifts his arms to lock Mark fully into an embrace.

“Do you want to hear some more _Pacific Rim_?” 

Mark nods, the movement burrowing his face into Charlie’s chest. Charlie runs his fingers through Mark’s sweat-slick hair. He picks up the story.

“They hold sparring matches to see who’s drift compatible. Raleigh challenges Mako to the test. She steps down to the floor, and the connection is immediate. It’s pure chemistry. He moves impulsively, taking points because he can. She is a force of self-discipline. She lets him take the points because she knows she can take her own. And he learns that too.” He pauses, running a strand of hair through his fingers. Mark shudders against him, and he can’t tell if it’s Mark’s heart or his own pounding a frantic rhythm against his chest. He resumes smoothing Mark’s hair with one hand while the other holds him tightly.

“They dance together. Their staves flash through the air, colliding and bouncing in a language they’re creating moment to moment. They throw each other, and it’s both a challenge and a statement of admiration. With everyone else around them, they create a space wholly their own. Nothing matters except the two of them.”

Charlie’s heart slows as Mark steadies. 

“Mark, it’s not your fault.” He starts stirring at that. “Listen to me. Your power is like the drift. It’s this wonderful connection with somebody else, but if you start chasing the rabbit, if you push and pull when it’s meant to flow naturally, it disrupts that conversation. You didn’t know, and you can’t fight back against them. They’ll get what they want. They always do. The others will heal. You need to heal too.”

“What if they don’t? What if it goes too far?” 

Mark’s eyes are wide and shining, terrified and flecked with gold, fragile glass a moment from breaking and spilling water everywhere, and staring up at Charlie. He stares into those eyes and sees the path to getting lost in them. Some spirit takes over his tongue and words fall out from a world away.

“It won’t. I promise.” Compelled by whatever impulse controls him, he presses his lips to the top of Mark’s head and holds him tightly in his arms, sealing the promise. Breaking away, Charlie slips out of Mark’s arms and off the bed, staring at the floor.

“I need to fix the camera before it sends out a notice report.” 

Mark doesn’t reply. The guard stands by the bed, torn between word and action before walking briskly to the door. As the lock clicks and he pulls the door open, Mark’s voice rasps across the room.

“Charlie. Don't go.” 

For one brief moment, the impulses that brought him to this room and pulled words from his mouth fill Charlie Decker’s mind with images of carrying Mark out of the room, of unlocking all the doors in Tier 5 and making a run for the exit.

“I'm sorry, Mark. I have to.” Charlie steps through the door and listens to it close behind him.


End file.
